White Rabbit
by hadejayden
Summary: AU Sheriarty: Moriarty convinces Sherlock to buy a pet rabbit. Much fluff and a certain amount of angst ensues.


"Sherlock, I'm bored."

"You're always bored."

Spinning around on his swivel chair, the world's only consulting detective slid across the sitting room of 221b Baker Street. His microscope still sitting awkwardly on his lap, he sighed and let his eyes wander over the body draped along his sofa. Without the usual designer suit and menacing, psychotic demeanour securing his existence, Jim Moriarty appeared just as any other 'normal' person who might have come to this flat seeking adept knowledge and expertise. Sherlock found, that more often than not, those people's problems were menial, uninteresting and uninspired. Most of the time, those who filled this room were unworthy of his time. This was not one of those times. Placing the microscope on the floor beside his chair, Sherlock continued to examine the man in front of him. He tried to hide the smirk playing on his lips at the sight of Jim's tousled hair, and its severe incapability of remaining flat after a night's sleep. It stuck up in several places, most noticeably at the back, often refusing to come down for hours afterwards, until he had redressed in his signature Westwood two-piece – until he had represented himself as the deranged Moriarty.

But, right now, he was Jim. Laying in his striped pyjama bottoms and his salmon t-shirt ("It's not pink, Sherlock, stop it!"), he was who he should not have been. Sherlock preferred him this way.

"Don't you have some sort of plot to formulate?"

He said it with a smile, but Jim could sense the suspicion in his voice. Curling himself into a tight ball, he rolled off the sofa and lay on the floor, groaning dramatically.

"Sherrrrrlock, you know I'm never working when I'm hereeeee…" Raising his head, he began clasping at various tufts of his own dark hair. His eyes were wide and glossed with desire, complimenting the soft lips beneath that had downturned into an all-too-familiar pout. He reminded Sherlock of a puppy - sad and adorable – desperately pleading for his master's attention. Playing along, he reached forward and patted Jim's head. Beaming beneath his touch, Jim emitted a soft purring sound, which eventually turned into a quiet giggle as Sherlock scratched behind his ears. This man might have been the reason behind his two year absence from London, and the rational forming the threatening of his friend's lives, but God, he was adorable.

They stayed this way for a few moments, enjoying each other's touch, until Jim became restless again. He shuffled closer to Sherlock, his eyes wide in excited anticipation.

"We should get a rabbit."

Sherlock eyed him with curiosity and slight amusement – "A what?"

Jim lay his sleepy head down on his lover's lap, peering upwards to a face of pleasant confusion. "You know… A rabbit, a bunny, a little pet to have hopping around here, keeping me company when you're off _detecting_." He said the last word with a slight sneer that did not, unsurprisingly, go unnoticed by Sherlock.

"And what about when you're off wreaking havoc for days on end, hmm?" he questioned, stroking Jim's cheek, drawing small circles with the tips of his fingers. "You can't make me feel sorry for you, sweetheart."

Jim groaned and rubbed his face against Sherlock's thigh. His fluffy hair bounced with the motion.

"I'm not _trying_ to make you feel sorry for me, Sherlock. I just _really_ think we should get a little rabbit… A little pet," Jim sprang to his feet and launched himself across the room, "Come on, it'll be fun!"

Sherlock watched him moving effortlessly around the space; almost gliding as he slipped his body between pieces of furniture and various objects littered throughout the flat (orange traffic cone, garden sheers, oversized, novelty butterfly net – "All extremely important artefacts regarding a case", Sherlock would argue). Jim's hands waved slowly above his head as he moved, fluttering through the air as if independent from his slim form. He was overflowing with enthusiasm and wonder – a state Sherlock had been so privileged to experience multiple times these last few years. Jim absorbed the pleasures he found in his life with magnificent power, projecting his delights and shimmering approvals through his almost feminine motions of spinning, gliding, and occasional skipping. Sherlock had always thought he could have been an exceptional dancer if he had opted for a more culturally acceptable career. Regardless, he would always be a performer. Sherlock assumed he craved the attention it gave him. Really, it was the only way he could express his sentiment that didn't involve serial murder. He felt free.

Sherlock decided to humour him. "And say if you were, hypothetically, able to secure this hypothetical rabbit. Where do you plan on keeping it when you aren't hanging around my flat? Hypothetically."

Jim dropped his arms. "He would stay here of course," he exclaimed, exasperated. "He would always be here."

"Oh, I don't think so, darling," Sherlock retorted with a snort. Jim's expression fell, his whole body becoming limp and disconnected. That puppy-eyed look had returned, only this time, without its usual invigoration and sparkle. In an attempt to backtrack, Sherlock offered a small smile, of what he hoped did not expose itself as guilt. "But you're the only pet I need…"

Jim gave a small shrug before slipping off to the kitchen. Mentally punching himself, Sherlock rubbed his face aggressively with the palms of his hands, letting out a low groan. It was a little more than known fact that the famous Sherlock Holmes was not entirely socially adjusted, and this, whatever it was, with Jim lately hadn't done much to disprove the masses. Too many times had he sat in confusion while Jim sulked in another room, emerging some time later with a hurt look of despair on his face. It didn't take more than a few dozen of these occurrences for Sherlock to realise when he had said something wrong. Even though they might have been as bad as each other in terms of sociopathic nature, Jim knew when he wanted to feel offended. And Sherlock offended him, a lot. Rising briskly to his feet, he crept towards the kitchen.

"Oh Mr Moriarty?" he called in what he hoped was his most charming, sing-song-y voice, "Let's go get a rabbit!"

Jim clutched the small travel cage close to his chest as they emerged from the dark confines of the pet shop. While Sherlock stopped to upturn the collar of his coat, slip his inconspicuously bright woollen hat on, and readjust his Raybans, his supposed nemesis cooed as he peered at the tiny bundle of white fluff they had just purchased.

"Oh, he's precious. I certainly picked a good one, didn't I?" Jim said, a wide grin erupting on his lips. Sherlock could hear the glee in his voice, as he secured his own scarf tightly around his neck. Glancing up for affirmation, Jim's perfectly shaped eyebrows knitted together in a frown. "Do you really need to do that every time we come out?" he asked. A fluffy pink nose peeped through the bars of the cage in his arms. Jim stroked it lightly with his index finger.

Sherlock shifted his hat slightly, stuffing a stray curl beneath the fabric. "It's every time _I_ come out. Regardless who's with me."

Jim nodded, fixing his attention on the rabbit. "Come on," he said, "let's go."

They strolled together in silence until the clear skies above disappeared and were replaced with clouds that burst open, drenching them both in sharp raindrops, soaking them to the skin. The rabbit had retreated to the far corner of its cage in fear of the sudden change in weather.

After some time, Sherlock halted and attempted to shake the rain from his face. He sighed in frustration. "This is ridiculous. We'll have to get a cab."

"Oh yeah, that's a fabulous idea darling. Cabbies are positively delighted when you bring baby rabbits along for the ride," Jim responded, the sarcasm discernable in his voice.

Sherlock sighed. "Well what do you propose we do?"

"Oh, I don't know honey, why doesn't the world famous Mr Holmes deduce some way for us to get home?"

It would have been impossible for Sherlock to not have noticed the shift in Jim's attitude. His tone had become elevated and harsh, fluctuating as if it were being operated by a sort of lever, making him sound animated, cartoonish, and almost unhuman. He was familiar with this shift, having witnessed it many times since their seeing of each other had begun, and more notably, he had seen it in its unchanging form, at its most terrifying, when they had first met. When he was Moriarty.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and began typed furiously. Jim was silent. Replacing his phone, he straightened up.

"Come on then."

"Come on where? We'll be drenched walking back in this."

Sherlock shot him a knowing smile. "My homeless network. I've got somewhere we can go."

He led them to an easily concealed doorway in a side alley street, a mere minute away from where they had been when the rain had started. He pushed open the door as Jim entered ahead, pulling his coat tightly around the cage, shielding his rabbit. He crept down the small, cramped hallway alone, finally arriving in a modest alcove, where an open fire was blazing, casting an orange glow across the dusty, worn wooden floor. There was a small bundle of blankets in the centre of the room, and that was all. Jim turned when he heard Sherlock behind him, a look of virtuous melancholy on his face.

"I sleep here sometimes," Sherlock said frankly, pulling off his hat, sending a mini cascade of water falling around his face, "when I need to."

Jim bent and placed his cage next to the blankets. He stood, and moved forward gently, reaching to stroke the soft vacancy of Sherlock's cheek. He searched his eyes for any sign of the devotion, affection and yearning he so craved to receive. He knew that even if he found it, any amount of it, that it would not last, because he was Jim Moriarty - the notorious consulting criminal - and this was Sherlock Holmes – the favourable detective, who would always reside on the side of the angels. It did not surprise Jim that they ended up snuggled beneath the blankets together, their legs entwined, his head below the crook of Sherlock's chin, his arms snaked around his thin waist. It did not surprise him that they stayed there long after the rain had stopped, until the final embers of the fire had burnt out, and his new pet had fallen sound asleep within the confines of his own safe envelope. He could feel Sherlock's chest rise and fall steadily, and with every shallow breath taken, he tightened his grip, and reinforced his warmth.

It did not surprise him that Sherlock had granted him this haven. It would have surprised him, however, if he had been allowed to keep the white rabbit.


End file.
